Sunless Garden
by Robin Mask
Summary: Arthur struggled with so many things: his weight, his worth, even his love. He had hoped to find solace in Alfred, but instead found only rejection. It was only made worse when Francis was intent on causing heartache for everyone else also, even if the hapless romantic did not intend to hurt anyone . . . (Discontinued).


**A/N: **This is the sequel to "Broken Mirror", but it can stand alone.

There are two chapters uploaded here.

It is - however - discontinued. I always make it a point to complete works, which is why I haven't posted this to date, because I didn't want to post something that would be unfinished and I knew would stay unfinished. Still, due to some interest over the year, I have decided to post this so people can see what _could _have been, and so this isn't wasting away on my computer's memory.

I don't mind if anyone wishes to adopt this piece, but please message me first for permission.

**Sunless Garden  
****Chapter One**

"Arthur said that he loves me."

Mathieu began to choke on his tea. The spray from his mouth covered the monitor in front of him, so that the live-image of the plane turning was now blurred and wet, making it seem like they were taking off in rainy weather. It was only after tears sprung to his eyes that Alfred began to pat his back. He hated when his drink went down the wrong way, because nothing could be worse than feeling like he was choking and knowing that he wasn't technically choking at all.

A lady across the aisle gave him a sharp glare, unconcerned for his well-being, and gestured to him to cap his bottle and put it away. It took him a long few moments, because he felt more concerned with wiping away his tears and the monitor screen first, and he noted – although not surprised – that Alfred wasn't exactly keen to lend him a tissue or offer to hold his drink. His brother had given him _that _news at _that _moment and sat looking so nonchalant that it was as if he hadn't spoken at all, and frankly Mathieu had to wonder if he hadn't misheard his American sibling. Surely he wouldn't have said _that _and then returned to adjusting his headphones as if nothing had even happened? He would have had _some _facial change, right?

"I – I'm sorry," Mathieu said shakily, "but did you just say that he -?"

"Oh, man, I hate this part. My ears always like burst in their sockets or something!"

"What? Oh, maple! The take-off is steep today."

The roar of the engines suddenly felt rather unbearable, but worse than that was the pressure building in Mathieu's ears. He tried swallowing over and over, ignoring his brother's insane laughter about how funny it was to 'swallow', and focussed on how in a few moments they would be steady and even in the air. These long-haul flights were always the worst. It was so hard to kill time, even worse when he found it difficult to sleep on flights and how his brother had the concentration span of a gnat. Mathieu would have to spend the next seven or so hours trying to entertain Alfred.

"Makes you wonder how Kiku does it," Alfred said, without any seeming discomfort whatsoever. "I mean it's like twelve hours from here to his place, dude! I'd be like dying of boredom for that! Flying to your place is a bummer enough."

"Least it's only a quick transfer to New York," Mathieu replied.

He wiggled a finger in his ear to regain some hearing. He wondered if travelling had always been so noisy and uncomfortable, but something told him that bringing up the subject of 'cost efficiency', 'budgeting', or 'flying coach' would be a very bad move whilst his brother sat beside him. The windows on both sides of the plane only offered a view of the wings, and all around them were people upon people upon people. It was sardines crammed into a can.

Alfred next to him began to flick through some of the music options, before clicking on a new album and nodding his head to the music. The man next to Alfred opened a newspaper to read, the woman across the aisle from Mathieu turned on her e-reader to flick through a novel, and Mathieu . . . Mathieu was left wondering about what his brother had just told him. It had taken over an hour for Arthur to drive them to the airport, then they had checked in the required three-hours before, then the plane had been delayed for take-off by thirty minutes . . . had Alfred kept his quiet all that time? It wasn't like him to be forgetful or even to keep a secret. What had he even said to Arthur in return? Had he even given Arthur an answer? Then again, Alfred was straight, right? It could well be that he _couldn't _return Arthur's feelings.

Great, a seven-and-a-half hour flight filled with awkward conversation, it sounded just perfect. He lowered his head and let out a long sigh, he wondered how it would be possible to have such an intimate conversation around so many people, but it seemed that they were all lost in worlds of their own. No one liked travelling. It was simply a necessity, although the latest film releases did sometimes make Mathieu feel a little better. It was nice being able to freely watch so many foreign films before the rest of the world had a chance, or it _would _have been if Alfred hadn't dropped such a bombshell upon him. Seriously, his brother could learn some subtlety.

"A-Alfred?"

"Yeah, Bro?"

Alfred removed one of his headphones and gave Mathieu a bright and warm smile. He seemed genuinely content listening to the music; he was almost oblivious to the way the gentleman stole his armrest and the way that the person in front of him reclined back, taking up most of his leg-space. Mathieu had to wonder how his brother kept his cheerful attitude even when flying, but – then again – he would probably throw a hissy fit when the meals came around and there weren't any burgers and fries.

"D-did Arthur say he _loved _you or was _in love _with you?"

"What? Oh, in love with me! Weird, huh? I thought he was joking, but no!"

"Are you _sure _he meant it as it sounded?"

"Yeah! He was blushing and red and stuttered! He's like in love with me."

There was a loud and awkward cough from beside Alfred.

The gentleman seemed to have overheard the rather loud conversation between the two brothers, and he seemed to be a little less than amused. He gave a flick of his broadsheet rather roughly with his hands and gave Alfred a dark stare from the corners of his eyes, the rather loud throat-clearing he gave made it clear that he disapproved of being sat next to – what appeared – an over-active nineteen-year-old, but Mathieu was aware that the more the gentleman objected the louder Alfred would probably get. His brother didn't particularly like his 'right to free speech' stifled.

Alfred huffed loudly and then turned completely to his left side to lean into Mathieu. It didn't matter that Mathieu was huddling into himself, wishing that he could pretend that he wasn't related to his brother, or that he somehow found the in-flight magazine the most interesting thing in the world, because Alfred was only interested in one thing . . . _talking. _Mathieu sometimes even wondered if his brother even cared whom he spoke to or what he spoke about. It seemed like he was just happy to hear the sound of his own voice. Mathieu didn't mind so much for once, because he was quite interested in Arthur's supposed confession, but he didn't want to talk if it meant being a nuisance to everyone else around them.

"Dude, why couldn't we go first-class? It's like impossible to talk privately!"

"B-because we're supposed to be saving money," Mathieu said, as he tried to ignore his brother poking him over and over on his arm. "Our bosses don't _want_ us using money we can ill-afford to travel for personal reasons, and visiting Tallinn just because Eduard was having computer problems is both costly _and _frivolous!"

"Hey, it's not like it was _totally _frivolous! I mean we stopped by in London, didn't we? That's like a diplomatic mission or something! Arthur and I totally have a special relationship thing going on!"

"A little _too _special it seems," Mathieu muttered childishly.

Alfred pouted and punched Mathieu hard on the arm. The Canadian man squeaked loudly and rubbed the forming bruise beneath his red hooded top, meanwhile Alfred folded his arms petulantly across his chest and stared hard at the screen in front of him. Okay, he sincerely hadn't meant to offend Alfred, but it was a little difficult to remain polite when his brother had waited until take-off to tell him something so important. He couldn't help but wonder how Arthur was, if he were okay. God forbid that Alfred had just flown off without giving him an answer.

"It's not like I led him on or anything!"

"N-not intentionally, maybe, but you do send out mixed messages."

"Whatever, Bro! Look, I'll totally prove to you he's in love with me; I have all the text messages saved still! Okay, so he's like totally wasted for the first few, but even when he sobered up and we were in the departure lounge he was still texting!"

Mathieu sighed and began to flick his screen to the world-map. It seemed that their plane still wasn't quite over the British Isles, although he supposed that was to be expected, but if the plane-ride were going this slowly . . . Mathieu checked his watch and then looked up at the map again. It was only when he looked up that he caught sight of Alfred's phone being turned on, the little screen glowing in the dark confined space of the aeroplane. Mathieu blanched.

It seemed the gentleman to Alfred's right also had the same look of apprehension and morbid curiosity, because suddenly his newspaper was a lot lower and his eyes were darkly focussed on the phone screen. A lot of people used their phones during travel, usually to play games or to listen to music, but didn't they change their settings before getting on the plane? Hadn't Alfred simply just turned his phone off whilst they were waiting earlier? It was then that Mathieu saw it. The little icon on the corner of the screen was flicking to say that it was searching for a signal, and Alfred was lifting the phone up and down in a desperate attempt to _get _a signal.

"Show me when we get home!" Mathieu snapped, as he snatched the phone from Alfred's hands and turned it off. "Y-you can't use a phone here without putting it on flight-mode first! You should know that, Alfred! You'll cause an accident!"

"Dude, if it were _that _easy to cause an accident then all the terrorists would have to do is send a picture message at the same time, like 'texts away'! We haven't banned phones, have we? Nope! Therefore it's fine, man, don't worry about it!"

"T-that isn't the point! Stop that!"

Mathieu put up a hand to block Alfred from grabbing at the phone. The attention they were getting wasn't very positive, and the very last thing Mathieu wanted was for a fellow passenger to complain about their behaviour. He wasn't sure what the air stewardesses could do if the gentleman complained, perhaps move him seats or give the two brothers a warning, but Mathieu didn't really want to find out. What if they blacklisted them from flying? What if they fined them for being a nuisance? Mathieu hid the phone into his hand luggage by his feet, and then sent an exhausted stare to Alfred, who pouted and collapsed back into his seat with folded arms.

"So what did you tell him?" Mathieu asked.

"Er, just that it was real nice of him," Alfred said sheepishly, "but that I had to get back to the States and stuff . . . what was I supposed to say? I mean, like, I didn't even know he had those kind of feelings, it was way awkward!"

"Oh, Alfred . . ."

He let out a long sigh and turned off the monitor in the headrest in front of him. There was a small part of him – very small indeed – that hoped Arthur was dealing with this well, perhaps simply waiting by his phone for Alfred to make up his mind and give him a call, but there was another part of him that realised this was just wishful thinking. Arthur had been devastated during the war . . . he had written heartbroken letters every day and then fallen into depression for more than a century. There was little to no chance that this wouldn't hurt Arthur.

It wasn't as if they could just go back and talk to Arthur face-to-face either, because including check-in times and travel-times it would take well over a day just to get back at this point . . . the best they could do would be to video-talk to Arthur and hope that he didn't get too embarrassed or upset and hang up on them. Honestly, what was Alfred thinking just leaving things like that? It is was easy for the European nations, they could travel freely at will, just so long as they were on land, and so if Feliciano and Ludwig fought they could walk to the other's home and make amends within a day, but travel across sea was _different_. Alfred knewthat. Ludwig had explained it dozens of times to both Cuba and America, but somehow the pair always forgot that travel wasn't as easy as the European nations made it seem. Perhaps it was because Cuba was such an isolated patch of land, an island nation, or perhaps they were both just too stubborn to _try _to understand, but either way . . . there was no going back to Arthur at this point.

The man next to Alfred gave a loud cough and made a show of purposely putting on his headphones, before he turned up the volume to what must have been an ear-splitting amount. He didn't break eye contact with Mathieu the entire time. It wasn't fair that any time his brother made a mistake that he always seemed to get the blame for it, it wasn't Mathieu – after all – who was making the racket and talking about personal things at the top of his voice. Mathieu began to wonder if _he _could move seats, as well, but Alfred would probably just follow him.

"What if we're, like, related or something?" Alfred asked.

"W-we are, Alfred, you're my brother . . . for better _or_ worse."

"Dude, you're such a doofus! Not you, man! I meant Arthur! Like, we just sort of appeared, right? He and Francis were just there; they helped raise us and stuff, and then later Gilbert and that showed up for the war . . . what if Arthur really is our brother or something? That'd be so totally wrong!"

"I – you – well," Mathieu stumbled.

He lifted the bridge of his glasses to rub his nose. It was somewhat amazing the kind of questions and ideas that his brother could come up with . . . to Mathieu the more pressing questions were a lot simpler. He worried more about if his brother even liked men romantically, he worried if he were even compatible with Arthur, and he even worried if they could somehow make a long-distance relationship work, but – frankly – the issue of relation should have been an obvious one. It certainly wasn't an issue that worried Mathieu in the slightest.

"Y-you aren't biologically related, Alfred! You have Finnish genes; you know that, Tino told you. You even look and act like Tino and Berwald. I – I'm not going to explain the biology of nations to you, but I don't think you have anything to worry about. You aren't related by blood or even by adoption. You haven't called Arthur 'brother' since the war, and you said it yourself: you aren't his brother anymore."

"Yeah, I know, but it's still weird, isn't it? He raised us, Bro."

"_Barely_. He'd be off to England again no sooner had he arrived. I thought this was the whole reason you went to war? You turned to Francis and Gilbert, of all people, for help in defeating him. You refused to read any single one of his letters. You even turned your gun on him! You never wanted to be his 'brother'."

"Well he –"

"And he never wanted to be yours! He asked you never to call him 'brother', plus he flirts with you all the time! Maple hockey! You're both so stubborn sometimes. You know Arthur was just in love with the idea of having a brother, rather than actually _wanting _a brother . . . all he ever wanted was someone to love. He wanted _family_. He has that now. He has friends like Japan, Australia, India . . . he has _actual _siblings within the UK. All he ever wanted from you was love, not a literal familial bond. Then that love grew . . . it should be romantic, n-not warped!"

Alfred huffed loudly and made a big show of putting on his headphones, before he turned up his volume rather loudly. It would have annoyed Mathieu – who was beginning to get rather angry at his brother – except the air-steward stood beside him in the aisle, evidently having heard the very last part of Mathieu's rant, and he looked down at Mathieu with an expression of amusement and pity. It seemed that Alfred had purposely left Mathieu to deal with the aftermath.

He slunk down into his seat and tried avoid eye contact with the air-steward, especially when he could feel his cheeks heat up to a bright red colour. The man reached out to give Mathieu a pair of menus and asked if they wanted a drink, surprisingly – despite the volume of the music – Alfred's sixth sense regarding food kicked in, and he shouted out a request for soda. Mathieu asked for some juice. It was surprising how interesting the aeroplane floor was, but if it meant avoiding looking at a stranger – after yelling at his brother how another man being in love with him was romantic – then he would never ever look up.

"Whatever, man," Alfred muttered.

The American man took his drink with a smile and a wave from the air steward, before he turned to Mathieu and spat out his tongue in a childish display. Mathieu was still fidgeting with his menu card when Alfred asked if he could get one of everything, causing the steward to laugh and ask why they weren't travelling with their parents, which only caused Mathieu to sink lower into his sink in despair. Eventually the man disappeared and Alfred pulled down his headphones to talk again.

"I just want to know what I'm supposed to say to him," Alfred asked.

"Well, do you love him back?"

"No way, dude! He's like _Arthur_! That'd be so gross. It'd be like – I don't know – weird or something! I don't know why he's in love with me anyway, plus – like – is he even . . . you know . . . gay and stuff?"

"Are _you_?"

Alfred let out a sharp exhale of breath, then crossed his arms petulantly and glared off to his right. The light dusting of a blush on his cheeks indicated that it might have been a sensitive subject for him, but otherwise he seemed rather annoyed and irritated, almost as if Mathieu had offended him in some way. It was true that Alfred was quite accepting and tolerant of people, but his country was only slowly gaining the same tolerance as Canada or Spain, and so Mathieu wondered if – deep down – Alfred had somehow internalised the conflict that had appeared within his country so sharply.

"Look, if you're not even going to be serious then there's no point talking!"

"Alfred, I –" Mathieu stopped and sighed. "Okay, we don't have to talk about this anymore, but just promise me one thing? Promise me that you'll ring Arthur when we get home and talk to him. He deserves an answer."

"But what answer do I give?"

Mathieu cursed in French and pulled his headphones on. If Alfred could switch out the world, then he could too. It was sometimes frustrating to talk to Alfred, because he had a habit of only hearing what he wanted to hear, refusing to believe anything that clashed with his viewpoints to the point that any question was usually just a search for an answer that validated his own. Mathieu loved his brother, but he sometimes wished that he could be a little more honest with himself.

It must have been so upsetting for poor Arthur . . . to be left with questions hanging in the air, worrying whether Alfred now hated him or if it were possible he could love him back. The poor Briton was prone to drinking at the best of times, this would be probably lead to the worst hangover of his life. Mathieu could understand how that must have felt . . . he could understand because he had said the words 'I'm sorry' before, seen the heartbroken look on another's face, and for Alfred to just _run away_ felt like cowardice to Mathieu. It just wasn't in Alfred's character. Why hadn't he given Arthur a straight answer? Why couldn't he give _himself _a straight answer?

"This will be a long flight . . ."

"Huh? Why, dude?"

Alfred groaned loudly and tried to turn up the volume on his headphones, but Mathieu stopped him before he burst an eardrum. The neighbour to Alfred's right could clearly hear the loud music, as he glared at them rather darkly, and his brother even seemed to be in pain at the loud volume. Mathieu turned it off completely. It was important to talk about these things, no matter how 'girly' that may have seemed to Alfred. The very last thing Mathieu wanted was to see someone else hurt.

"I think," Mathieu said, "that we need to talk . . ."

**Chapter Two**

'_You doubt how I feel, _mon cher_?'_

_There was just something so romantic about a summer's sunset. The scent of roses pervaded the air, consumed the senses, and seemed to float about like an ethereal presence seeking to enrapture the human mind. It seemed to capture the moment so perfectly! Ah, Francis could just feel the romance all around him, which was the way it should be, _non_? The very air itself felt warmed by love, the sunlight itself caressed his body, and the atmosphere felt so right . . . so perfect . . . _

_He could see the way that the sun setting in the distance made him feel rather nostalgic, it made him feel as if this were the perfect time to confess! In the olden days there had been nothing to do in the evening but watch the sun set into the darkening sky, it always gave him a deep sense of peace, it reminded him that there was something out there greater than himself, something more powerful and enduring. That was the curse of his kind. They could not die, they could not grow old, and so all they could do was to hope that the world around them didn't change too much, for if it did – especially so rapidly as to confuse the senses – it would drive one to madness. They sought for anchors. They sought for grounding._

_Once upon a time Francis had looked to the world around him for answers, finding – deep within its folds – a young woman of great beauty and virtue, a woman who seemed to embody the spirit of France itself! She would fight for the country – for _him _– and she asked for nothing in return, only for her to die and leave him . . . how helpless he had felt! _Alors, _he would never love again! So oft did Arthur say that the reason for Francis' promiscuity was that, but such Freudian excuses were not becoming! Francis was deeper than that. He was better than that. _

'_Until I met you, I never thought I would love again.'_

'_I – I don't know what to say . . . I think there is some mistranslation here.'_

_Francis looked up to his loved one. It was hard not to feel the adoration of a thousand angels smiling down upon him! Mathieu sat so elegant, so serenely on the garden swing that he appeared to have fallen from heaven itself. His reddish-blonde hair felt about him in a shabby-chic style, whilst his violet eyes seemed to stand out within the dusk, almost penetrating the darkness with a light of their own. How did he do it?_

_He adored Mathieu. He had never met anyone so beautiful both inside and out, someone whose body matched the appearance of the soul. He had been the one – and only – nation to inherit both the good points of Francis and Arthur, but without any of the bad. He was sensitive to the feelings of others, idealist in his view of life, and his country had banned capital punishment, gun ownership, and allowed for the marriage of anyone regardless of gender. He was a nation years ahead of any other. He was also perfect as a person. He was so soft and gentle, so shy and modest, and he never asked anything of anyone. Francis adored him. _

'_Love! I love you! _L'amour_!'_

'_I – I don't know what to say! Maple!'_

'_Say that you love me too, _oui_?'_

_The following moment of silence was the longest that Francis had ever endured. He knew what the answer would be – he didn't get his reputation as the nation of lovers for nothing – and yet despite knowing, _feeling_, he still felt that sense of dreaded anticipation that stole away his breath. How could he not feel nervous? The moment Mathieu said 'yes' they could finally be together, every second he remained silent was a second that they were apart! _Mon Dieu, _he could not bear it! He could not bear a single second more without his beloved Mathieu, and if – _

'_I'm sorry,' Mathieu said sweetly. _

'_Why are you sorry? For making me wait so long?'_

'_N-no, because I can't love you . . . I can't.'_

_Something inside Francis smashed into pieces. H-how was it possible that his darling love could reject him so cruelly? How could Mathieu not love him? Everyone loved Francis . . . his bed was lined each night with the most beautiful of men and women, and his charm was envied worldwide by almost every nation. Mathieu had not even said 'do not'; he had said 'can not'. He _cannot _love Francis. What was so fundamentally wrong with Francis that he couldn't be loved?_

'_I am so sorry, Francis!'_

_The Frenchman did what he rarely did. He wept. _

"Why are you bleeding here?"

Francis blinked a few times and looked up.

It seemed that Arthur was not all that impressed by the sight of the forever-young Parisian parading through his city, especially when said Parisian was enduring a bout of melancholy and wallowing in self-pity. The rain felt so cleansing and calming though, as if it were washing away all his sins and purifying his very soul, and the sky above – so grey, so dreary – reflected the very inner torment of his soul so eloquently! It was as if the sky wept for him!

Francis twirled on the London street; he felt the rain penetrate his lilac coat and smatter about his face like a thousand dewdrops, he heard the puddles beneath his feet splash lightly as he moved, and all about him the cobbled street seemed to dance about his vision. The shops and stalls around seemed almost to be something out of a fairytale, or something from an old and medieval movie, and yet despite the charming quirks of a quaint and small town, it all felt so . . . _claustrophobic_. The buildings were so small, the people were pushed elbow to elbow in the cramped streets, and whilst the London smog had long gone – centuries past – the air still felt so dank and oppressive. He longed to be back home! He longed for the romance of Paris!

"Ah, I am lost, _mon frere_," Francis sang lightly. "These English streets are so complex, _non_? There are no blocks, no straight lines, and to even walk in a circle is to lose one's sense of self! _Je ne comprends pas_, I am lost in life as in love!"

"You bloody twat. I bet even your internal monologue is in purple prose."

"You are just jealous! You do not know the power of love," Francis said as he clasped at his breast. "You can not feel heartbreak unless you have a heart _to_ break! My Mathieu is so perfect, so beautiful! I thought – out of everyone – that he would understand me most of all! I thought he knew the passions of the heart, the beauty of emotion, the desires of one man for another! He rejected me so cruelly! I cannot live like this! _Je désespère_!"

Francis stopped spinning and gazed upon Arthur with pleading eyes. The Englishman did not look his best, not in the slightest! He wore such a dreary and dreadful overcoat, a waterproof contraption designed in a hideous green-cum-grey shade that made his skin seem sallow and lifeless, such a coat should never have been invented at all! He held an umbrella over his head like a lifeline, which was odd indeed, for usually Arthur did not use umbrellas . . . the British man argued that a little rain never hurt anyone and that umbrellas were a waste of time.

Now that Francis paid better attention, Arthur did not look well at all! His green eyes were so bloodshot, so baggy beneath and shadowed to the core, almost as if he had not slept for many days. His skin was pale and it looked as if . . . as if he had lost weight. Ah, this was not good. Arthur was very slight for his height at the best of times, being a rather naturally thin man, and so to see him looking so emaciated – despite trying to hide underneath his large coat – was a fearful thing indeed. He wanted to reach out and hug Arthur, but to do so would be to sign his death warrant. Arthur hated physical touch. He hated to be fussed over. He would be angry to say the least were Francis to fuss and fawn over him like a newborn babe.

He seemed to be looking at Francis with a dark mixture of pity and frustration, almost glaring daggers at him as he appeared to try and understand his own feelings in the process. Could it be that Arthur wanted company and only pretended to feel otherwise? It was possible, wasn't it? Arthur always acted so stoic and always tried for that 'stiff upper-lip', but the truth was that he was only human and had a need for comfort just like any of the others. If only he could admit it, he would be so much more adorable than his usual grumpy self!

"Look, all I wanted to do was to have a pint," Arthur admitted. "I came here because it's the best place in London to get completely plastered, plus it's so stereotypically British I thought the rest of you lot would avoid it. You're ruining my night, Frog!"

Ah, that was so like the English! They were always so polite, even when they were insulted you to your face! First the excuse or reason, then the implied apology, followed by the insult that they had intended all along! Francis wondered if Arthur merely did it to keep everyone at arm's length, an attempt to keep everyone away from him so as not to get hurt . . . it obviously hadn't worked, if that were the case, as he looked so miserable anyway! What right had he to judge Francis when his life was obviously not much superior? Bah, damn him!

"I have just as every right to be here as you," Francis snapped.

"I very much doubt that! Look, I don't have the energy to face you right now . . . I've had a rather bad day and I would jolly well like to forget all about it, so if you would kindly just leave . . . wait, why are you buggering well here for anyway?"

"Ah, well, I was looking for a quiet little place to mourn the loss of my Mathieu, only I began to feel the sting of isolation and solitude, oh, it was such a painful emotion! I could have died from grief! It was only then that I sensed one of us in this area, so I thought 'loneliness is much easier when you have someone else by your side', _oui_? So I thought I would come here to see them!"

Arthur gave Francis a very dark glare. He seemed to lower his umbrella slightly, as if to try and hide in himself and away from the stare of his colleague and acquaintance. Then – as if he could not believe the word of a Frenchman – he turned and used his hands to peer inside the pub window. It must have been very difficult to see, what with the rain cascading down the silvery panes, and the fact that he also had to juggle the umbrella, but somehow he saw through the warped glass inside. The lower panes were patterned green and red diamonds, but the upper panes were mere transparent squares of glass . . . Francis knew what the Englishman would see.

"I see, you're right, there is one of us in there."

"I told you!"

"Fine, well you might as well come in then."

Arthur walked to the door of the pub and let himself in. It should have been a simple gesture, but of course the Briton could not resist a chance to annoy his French companion, even when such a task should have been quite impossible. Arthur lowered his umbrella before walking fully inside, grabbed the base, and began to shake it forcefully so that the water droplets went all over Francis, who had been in the process of following behind his companion . . . if he weren't already wet, he would be now. The damned childish Briton!

The smile on Arthur's face was far worse than anything else. He appeared rather devilish, with eyes narrowed and a dark aura appearing to radiate from him, and yet there was sadness to his expression that made him seem less terrifying than usual. Oh, he was still rather scary, enough to make even Ludwig quiver with fear, of that Francis was sure! Still, the sadness would not fade . . . it was Arthur's 'stiff upper-lip' at it's finest, only usually he tried to hide his sorrow beneath a forced laugh and smile, never did he hide pain behind a growl or a glare. It was clear that Arthur's mood was rather grim, but why Francis did not know.

He followed Arthur inside and watched as the Englishman went immediately to the bar, placing an order for a 'pint' and a 'dry wine' . . . Francis rolled his eyes when the bartender rattled off a list of wines and Arthur – looking completely lost – simply said 'the last one' with a nervous smile. These people! Did they not know that wine could accentuate a meal, complete the day, or spread a poignant message to another with a mere sip? Wine had it's own language, to simply say 'whatever' was an utter blasphemy! The British should be shot for such a crime!

Arthur slid into a booth at the far end of the pub.

Francis followed with a sigh, but on the way he caught sight of Ludwig and Gilbert. It seemed that his senses were correct, there _were _more of his kind about, but it was very strange indeed . . . where was Feliciano? Where were Antonio or Roderich or Elizabeta? Francis rarely saw the two Germanic brothers without their friends or family, but there they were, looking so despondent . . . well, at least Gilbert looked quite healthy and hearty, albeit worried for his brother. _Alors_, how long had Ludwig been drinking? He looked so miserable, so detached, so humiliated . . . what could have caused such despair? Could it be that heartbreak was contagious?

"So? Are you bloody well going to tell me what you're moping about?"

"_Il n'importe pas,_" Francis replied.

In the corner of his eyesight – across the room of the dark and dreary pub – he saw Gilbert give him a thumbs-up and a wink, to let him know that all was supposedly okay, before he struggled to get his little brother to stand. It must have been a little embarrassing to have a little brother be so much taller, more muscular, and so much stronger, but Gilbert only ever showed pride in that fact. He always admired Ludwig and loved him dearly. It made Francis wish that he had that, too.

"What is it with you and French? Anyone would think English was beneath you."

"It is beneath everyone, _mon frere,_" Francis said sadly. "It is such a common language, there is no originality to it. It is also needlessly complicated and spoken by those loud, American tourists. _Helas_, they never even _try _to speak French!"

"Well, America hasn't spoken English for years . . ."

Francis caught the odd look in Arthur's eyes. He caught the look of pain and heartbreak that often was seen around the fourth of July, but never any other time. It was a look of embarrassment and vulnerability, where his eyebrows would droop and his eyes would soften, his usually perfect posture fading into a shadow of its former self, so that he seemed to hide into himself like an insecure teenager. His cheeks were tinged slightly pink, but his lips were parted just slightly with an unseen sigh.

Could his friend's strange mood be related to a certain little _Américain_? It would make sense, especially with Alfred's departure just recently, but it seemed unlikely that Alfred wouldn't have said something – told everyone – if anything had happened between the two of them. Then again, Alfred could not sense the mood at all, so it was also likely that he had no idea that Arthur was upset and shaken by something that had occurred between the two. It was so unfortunate! First Francis was stabbed harshly by Cupid's arrow, and now Arthur was the latest victim to romance and life.

"Is this about what happened between you and Alfred?"

"What?" Arthur took a few gulps of his beer and glared at Francis darkly. "How the bloody hell do you know about that? I thought he was still somewhere over the Atlantic, how'd he manage to get word out to you?"

"Ah, my little Cockney turtledove! I know nothing until just now! I only made a little guess, _oui_, but then you confirmed it so perfectly to me!"

"Bastard!"

Francis leaned back to sip upon his wine, from the corner of his eye he saw the two Germanic brothers leaving the bar. He missed his days spent drinking with Gilbert and Antonio, but it was so difficult to find the will to have fun when one's world was collapsing about them! He had built up such high hopes, he had envisioned a future full of love and prosperity, only for his world to come crashing down upon him in a terrifyingly horrific manner!

There was a part of Francis that wanted nothing more than to drive through the Tunnel and make his way to sweet Paris, but to be surrounded by the lovers of the world would hurt him more than any wound by Mathieu, because nothing could be worse than to see the one thing he wanted and the one thing that he couldn't have. It would be sheer torture! It would be like putting the caterpillar-eyed Briton into a room full of French cuisine and delicious Italian desserts! Ah, speaking of which, how could it be that already poor Arthur looked so thin . . . so emaciated . . . had he eaten at all? Could he truly be that depressed?

So it seemed that Arthur had made his confession . . . it had been about time! He remembered sleepless nights followed by nations congregating outside their rooms to complain about a 'lovers quarrel', he remembered nights where said pair of 'lovers' had shared a room out of so-called 'necessity', and he remembered many long-held glances and blushing expressions. Arthur ever hinting, but Alfred always rejecting. There had been times when Alfred had seemed to reciprocate, times when he seemed so close to confessing too, but it seemed that had all been an act after all.

"Did he reject you, _mon ami_?"

Arthur jumped a little and stared longingly into his pint-glass. There was a moment where it seemed the Englishman knew not what to do with it, but Francis wondered if it were more than that . . . if Francis could remember well Alfred's complaints that the beer was 'warm', that the glasses did not have handles, and that it was impossible to get a pitcher, then too would Arthur. The Briton was perhaps lost in memory. The alcohol would not help that; it would not help at all.

"I didn't expect him to just fall in love with me," Arthur said glumly. "I just expected him to listen and understand, to just give me an answer one way or the other, but instead the twat just _ran away_! He didn't even give me a bell at the airport, plus I'm certain that his airline allows him to make calls and texts."

"Many airline still do not, Britain. You know that."

"I – er – may have looked it up online, you know, just to make sure and all."

Francis smirked a little as Arthur began to down his drink, all in order to hide his blushing cheeks and welling eyes. It should have been easier to deal with his loneliness with another as lonely as he, but with so much heartbreak around him Francis was left to despair and wallow in pain, for how could he believe in love when love had all but destroyed those around them? Love had forced him to share a drink with Arthur and he could never forgive love for that!

He waited for Arthur to be mid-sip when he reached across the table and stole the man's phone from out of his pocket, which caused Arthur to immediately choke and splutter as the beer went down the wrong way. Francis laughed devilishly. The foolish man never bothered with things like passwords or pin-codes! It was so easy to access messages, phone records, and even Internet history. Quite noticeably, Mathieu and Alfred had taken a different flight to usual, so perhaps they were not aware that using their phones would be acceptable . . . more noticeable still were the dozens and dozens of messages from Arthur to Alfred, all apologising for his behaviour.

"G-give that back, you snail-eating frog!"

"Look at this, he has not even replied!" Francis cried as Arthur snatched away his phone, after smacking the Frenchman hard on his head. "Who is to say that he does not feel the same way, _oui_? He may be waiting to reply as we speak!"

"Ludwig has been kept waiting for an answer for wait feels like years now," Arthur mumbled as if to himself. "Even if Alfred did bloody reply, who's to say that he wouldn't just laugh in my face or look at me with pissing pity? Look at you. You have that stupid girly hair and sparkly blue eyes, most people _throw _themselves at your feet, probably from the chloroform, I'll admit, but even Matthew turned you away. I know that he had taste and all, but still . . ."

"W-what kind of compliment is _that_?"

"An honest one."

Francis could see that the alcohol was already taking effect. Arthur was always so surly and aggressive when he drank, more so than usual, and today his foul mood had overtaken Francis' melancholy by far. It would begin with little sarcastic quips and cold commands, followed with long and angry rants that would degenerate into crying spells and eventual fainting. Ah, it was always so difficult to deal with at the best of times, let alone when his heart had broken into a thousand pieces! If he were to deal with his pain and another's, he would need some help to cope.

"I think," Francis said coldly, "I shall need some more wine."


End file.
